The Front Porch Prophet (22 page)

“If I had known you never sleep,” Maggie had observed not long after their marriage, “I might have had second thoughts.” It was three o’clock in the morning, and her new husband had inadvertently awakened her while making a sandwich.

After their initial introductions in that cotton mill so many years ago, it was some time before A.J. made Maggie his own. There were difficulties to overcome before he could press his suit, the first of these being geography. Maggie was from the Alabama side of Lookout Mountain, and this cartographical anomaly coupled with his banishment to Dogtown made it nearly impossible to simply run into her. So he was forced to casually hang around the parking lot of the cotton mill at midnight to even get a glimpse. Luckily, stalking had not yet been invented, and diligent pursuit was still somewhat smiled upon as long as it didn’t involve firearms, state lines, or lengths of rope. So A.J. coincident ally bumped into Maggie at every opportunity, always keeping up the pretense of happenstance even though he was fooling no one. Maggie evolved the habit of smiling when she saw him, unless the meeting was excessively serendipitous.

The second obstacle in the path to matrimony was Roger Cork, called Killer by his friends and Pootie by his detractors, A.J. chief among their legion. The origin of the Killer moniker seemed to be a very poor impression of Jerry Lee Lewis singing “Whole Lotta Shakin’” complete with plenty of
oh, baby’s
and some spirited but bad piano playing with his nether regions. The more customary nomenclature, Pootie, stemmed from an unfortunate set of circumstances involving thirteen Krystal cheeseburgers—also known as gut bombs—a six-pack of hot Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, and the questionable wisdom of riding the Zipper at the county fair after ingesting all of that. The chemical reaction brought about by this combination was a tribute to digestive systems worldwide. The ride was cut short at the insistence of the other revelers, one of whom threatened to kill both the operator and Pootie if matters did not immediately improve. Because he was an amusement professional, the carny complied, but by then Roger Cork’s new nickname had stuck like gum to a desk bottom.

A.J. did not care for Pootie for two reasons. First, he had been one of the unlucky occupants of that Zipper car. In later years he regretted his rash words to the operator, but he never once felt bad about offering to put Pootie out of his misery. Indeed, his fellow thrill-seekers were urging him to action and offering suggestions as to the best way to get the job done. Many of the recommendations were quite creative, although one of the proposals was most likely impossible, given the laws of physics and the actual size of Zipper cars.

The second reason for A.J.’s animosity toward Pootie had to do with timing. To put it simply, when A.J. came to call, he discovered that young master Cork had beaten him to the punch.

“Would you like to go out Friday?” A.J. asked Maggie one night in the parking lot of the cotton mill. “I’ve got tickets to the Doobie Brothers.” He had been sleeping in his car when she noticed and awakened him.

“I’m sorry,” she replied, smiling. “I’ve promised Roger Cork I’d go out with him.” This was hard news for A.J., but he took it well.

“My advice is, don’t go to the Krystal,” he said. “I’d skip the fair, too.” He determined from her bewildered expression that she was unaware of Pootie’s seamier side.

So A.J. was faced with the need for an alternate plan of action. Sadly, he was not a divergent thinker, and he could envision no better strategy than to park on the other side of the mill parking lot. So that was what he did, although he didn’t harbor much hope the plan would bear fruit. Fortunately, there are unfathomable forces at work in the universe. Love would find a way. The following night, he was sitting in his Impala on the other side of the parking lot when his car door jerked open.

“Get out, Longstreet,” a voice boomed. A.J. recognized it, and he smiled. He took a sip of beer. Then he opened his eyes and looked up at Pootie, standing tall and indignant. He was blocking A.J.’s potential view of Maggie.

“Pootie,” he said, stretching the first syllable. “How about a beer?” A.J. was trying to be sociable, but his nemesis was as rigid as a walnut timber and as flexible as cold-rolled steel. He loomed in his muscle shirt with his fists clenched tight and his gut sucked tighter. A.J. yawned for effect and lit a cigarette. Then he removed himself from the interior of the Hog Farm and slouched against the car with his hands in his pockets. He eyed his foe.

Pootie was pretty, and he was rich on top of that. In A.J.’s limited experience, when the two qualities were combined it was not an absolute guarantee that the individual possessing them would be a shit head, but historically the correlation had been strong, and A.J. was in no mood to allow for individual exceptions. He didn’t like pretty boys, and he didn’t like rich boys, and if Pootie had been neither, he would have found something else.

“I hear you’ve been trying to mess with my girl,” Pootie said, foregoing the soup and getting right to the main course. He looked and behaved much like his father, Jack Cork, whose money had made no one happy, especially Jack.

“You can hear most anything around these parts, Poot,” A.J. observed, looking over his companion’s shoulder and noticing the carload of associates he had brought along.

“I’m not playing with you, you fucking hippie. If I catch you around her again, I’ll be on you like white on rice.”

“Get ready,” A.J. informed him. “You’ll be catching me around her in about five minutes.” A vein throbbed on Pootie’s forehead, and A.J. hoped he hadn’t been eating any Krystals lately. There was movement in the Mustang, and the three running buddies eased out and arranged themselves. A.J. reached in the open window of the Hog Farm and retrieved the Louisville Slugger. He smacked it against the side of his venerable Chevrolet, adding a dent to the collection while indicating his resolve to the worthies standing opposite. One of them flinched. Pootie’s eyes narrowed to a squint.

“I’ve heard about you and that bat,” he said. “Chicken shit.”

“Oh, great,” A.J. said, his eyes not leaving Pootie. “You bring three guys to do your talking for you, and I’m a chicken shit.”

They stood at impasse, and it may have gone bad but for the intervention of the Gods of Romance, one of whom chose that moment to stretch, spit out his cosmic toothpick, and address the situation in the parking lot below. He was a union god, apparently, and had finished his smoke break before springing to action, but late is better than not at all.

So up drove Maggie. Pootie and company stood in the harsh glare of her Torino’s headlights, gesturing wildly. Opposite them stood A.J., with the tip of his bat resting on Pootie’s chest. She stopped the car about a foot from the boys and got out.

“What are we doing?” she asked quietly. By silent agreement, Pootie’s compadres shuffled over to the Mustang, looking like a low-budget edition of the Keystone Cops. Pootie stood his ground but would not look at Maggie. A.J. looked at her, but his bat remained planted on Pootie’s sternum. Maggie removed her hands from her hips and folded her arms. This pose had the unintended effect of accentuating her bust line, and A.J. got weak in the knees. He swallowed and spoke.

“We’re just talking,” he said. Although he had not started this, he knew he was in trouble. He was raised to take his medicine, but he hoped it wouldn’t be too bitter.

“Just talking,” Pootie agreed. He, too, knew he was in a predicament, and he was not the most astute rich boy to ever climb out of a Mustang.

“About?” she directed her query at A.J., who didn’t know if it was a good sign he was now spokesman for the group.

“Well, I’ll tell you,” he began, throwing caution to the wind. “Pootie here seems to think I’m trying to steal his woman—that would be
you
—and he wanted to discourage me. I was about to explain to him that you are way too fine for his sorry likes, and that I intend to do whatever it takes to make you mine.” Pootie did not appreciate the “sorry likes” part and started for A.J., but A.J. shoved him back with the Slugger.

A.J. had a tendency to second-guess himself, but not this time. He had not planned to speak, but he would not recant a single word if he had a year to rewrite the discourse. The declarations drifted in the air like cotton fiber. Finally, Maggie spoke.

“I am nobody’s girl,” Maggie said. “Roger,” she continued, “I think it would be better if we didn’t go out again.” A.J. brightened. It seemed to be rolling his way. “A.J.,” she continued, “when I need someone to make me his, I’ll let you know. Until then, take your bat and go play baseball. And quit bothering me every night while I’m trying to go to work.” It had been rolling his way, all right, and it had flattened him when it arrived. Having spoken her piece, Maggie turned and walked toward the mill. A.J. watched as she crossed the parking lot, his heart fractured. He looked over at Pootie, who was staring at him with hatred.

“I’ll be seeing you around,” Pootie promised as he backed away from the bat.

“We’ll get some Krystals and drink some beers,” came A.J.’s reply. He was saddened by his setback, and climbed into the Hog Farm with the firm intention of having a smoke and a think. Pootie left several dollars’ worth of tread on the asphalt when he roared away.

A.J. came to the conclusion he was confused on the subject of women. He did not know where he was going wrong with Maggie. He had twice demonstrated his willingness to fight for her honor, and she wasn’t impressed. He had shown his undying devotion to her by making a nuisance of himself, and she didn’t seem enchanted by the gesture. He had declared his intentions and had been told to go away. He just didn’t get it.

A.J. deliberated as the night waned. He considered getting good and drunk, but that avenue seemed low. He supposed he could make the grand gesture and do away with himself, but the plan seemed limiting. He tarried on the idea of finding Pootie and beating him up. He knew it would make him feel better, but he didn’t want to lose his parking spot, so he grudgingly let the notion fade. When the whistle that marked shift change blew, he was toying with the idea of buying a new Mustang and drafting three riding companions, because at least Pootie had been allowed the privilege of a couple of dates before getting the heave-ho, whereas A.J. had been forced to take his heave-hos straight up. They were a little dry that way, a trifle laborious to swallow.

The night crew began to file out of the mill, and with them came Maggie. A.J. got out of his car and leaned up against the dent he had made the previous evening, as if attempting to hide the evidence. She paused when she saw him, a diminutive half step of indecision. He felt a trickle of sweat trace his spine. His mouth was as parched as baked sand.

“I thought I told you to quit hanging around,” she said to him when she came up. She spoke in a no-nonsense tone, but behind the message lingered a lack of absolute resolve, as if she had found a bit of charity for the pitiable wreck before her. He was looking at her shoes.

“Well, what you said was to quit being here at night,” he said lamely. He was a drowning man holding a broken spar, hoping to get off on a technicality. “This is morning.” A small point, admittedly. She leaned next to him on the Hog Farm.

“Listen to me,” she said. “You seem like a nice guy, and I know your heart is in the right place.” Her voice was relaxed and sensible. “The problem is, I think you’re looking for something that I’m not. I don’t want a steady boyfriend. We could go out once in a while, maybe, but you’ve got to let me have a little room. Okay?”

“Would you like to go get some breakfast?” he asked. She did not respond for what seemed a lifetime. Then she sighed and spoke.

“Okay,” she said. “Just breakfast. I’m sort of hungry anyway. But this is not a date, understand?”

“Absolutely,” he replied, holding the door for her. When she climbed in, he continued. “Maybe after we eat we could go for a swim at the quarry.”

Having overcome geography and Pootie, A.J. still had one more river to cross, and that wide river was Emmett Callahan. As the courtship progressed, it became apparent Emmett was less than enthralled by the long-haired boy in the ragged Chevy who was spending more and more time at the Callahan household. He was protective of his daughters, and A.J. was frankly not what he had in mind. In later years, A.J. would come to understand the point of view, but at the time it had made for a tough swim.

Emmett’s campaign of discouragement was not subtle, but it was creative. One evening while A.J. was catching a few winks in the back of the Hog Farm—parked in Maggie’s driveway after a late date—Emmett had the old Impala towed. Another time, A.J. noticed a lively odor and upon investigation found several sacks of Callahan garbage in the trunk of his car. Once, Emmett performed a citizen’s arrest on A.J. and held him until the Alabama equivalent of Slim arrived to haul him off. Admittedly, A.J. was soused, but the incident did little to enhance their relationship.

But A.J. toughed it out and slowly honed Emmett’s rough edges. Nothing worth having was easy to obtain, and such was the case with Maggie Callahan. In later years as her sisters all married, A.J. would listen to his brothers-in-law lament about Emmett and he would smile. He had taken the brunt, had taken the drawknife and slowly shaved the bark off the gnarled hickory that was Emmett Callahan, and all who came after were standing on his shoulders.

On the night A.J. proposed, he and Maggie were sitting on the broken dam that held back Lake Echota. The dam was at an isolated site and had been built during the Great Depression by a diverse group of young people with poor prospects who became dam builders because there was nothing else for them to do. A.J.’s granmama and her husband had met and married while working on the project. Their initials were discretely written in the concrete, a lasting memorial to true love, Portland cement, and the WPA.

“What’s wrong, A.J.?” Maggie asked. “You’ve been quiet all day.” The west end of the dam was in ruin, and the water roared through the breach. They sat in the causeway on the east side, trailing their toes in the green, cool water. The day had been a pearl, and the only mar on it was the sunburn Maggie had acquired in an area where the sun does not normally shine. Hopefully, she would not have to explain it to her mama.